


The case of the tux in the night

by Hexes



Series: Hex'verse Spideypool [4]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Aftercare, Ballroom Dancing, Blasphemy, Bottom Peter Parker/Top Wade Wilson, Daddy Kink, Dorks in Love, Hand Feeding, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lingerie, M/M, More spider-like Peter, Nervous Peter, Peter in lingerie, Praise Kink, Pre-planned scene, Semi-Public Sex, Some Plot, Spanking, Subspace, Swearing, Tuxedos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexes/pseuds/Hexes
Summary: Peter returns home to find a tuxedo with a list of instructions. As things are wont to do where Wade Wilson is concerned, they escalate quickly - if not smoothly.Alternative title: Partition - BeyoncéUn-beta'd





	The case of the tux in the night

   They'd talked about this. But it had been a few weeks, so Peter had thought (hoped?) that Wade may have forgotten. Not that Wade was really in the _habit_ of forgetting agreements that he wrung out of Peter when he had Peter bent over, folded up, or tied down, screaming for Daddy while Wade played him like an instrument. So, no… Wade hadn't forgotten, and now here's the three-piece tux, sleek, and steel grey, with a forest green bowtie and matching Paisley pocket square.  
  
    And black silk stockings.  
  
    And black elastic body harness, embellished with steel rings that are guaranteed to rub against him whenever he moves. At all.  
  
    And a note with a location, a time, and a list of instructions, written in Wade's grandiose, baroque hand that's so complex it always makes Peter wonder how Wade’s managed to never shoot the wrong person.  
  
    Peter chews his lip absently. Shifts his weight from foot to foot. Caresses the stockings. He knows Wade won't be _angry_ if Peter cancels the scene, but perhaps _disappointed_ , and that's ever so much worse. He pinches his knees together. He'd be a rank liar if he said he wasn't intrigued by the notion - obviously. Wade had never tried to do anything that Peter hadn't wanted on some level. He's growing hard. Nodding to himself he goes to the bathroom to start getting ready.  
  
   
  
    He had known that the harness would be tight. The straps cradling his ass are snug under the curve of each cheek, and it's making him blush at the way it defines his features. They're wrapped around the crease of his thighs, pinching slightly at his sac, and framing his half hard erection as he stares at himself in the mirror. The tight elastic hugs the nip of his waist, and the ring between his pecs skitters over his sternum with every breath. He's chewing his lip again, even though Daddy told him to stop. He needs to put on the stockings, the tux, remember how to do up a bowtie, but he's captivated by his reflection. He gives a turn, staring at the way the smooth straps stretch and tug over his skin. Taking a deep breath, he moves to finish getting ready.  
  
    He has to admit: He does clean up nicely. Even if he can't stop blushing furiously at having to dress differently to hide the fact that he's hard in his trousers; Daddy hadn’t allowed him any underthings aside from the harness and stockings. The dress shoes are squeaky, and the noise together with the sensation of the tight elastic pulling and stretching against his skin keep him sharply aware of the fact that he's incredibly out of his element.  
  
   
  
    The car that picks him up is obscenely large, shiny, and overall ostentatious. He suspects that the restaurant will be, too. He spends the ride switching between trying desperately to focus on anything - _anything at all_ \- other than the slick-sharp feel of the elastic between his legs, and being so engrossed in the feeling that he can't think. He gives up after the first ten or so minutes and just lets his mind wander. Unsurprisingly, it wanders all over Wade, and how incredibly devious he can be… and how much Peter loves it.  
  
    By the time he gets to the restaurant, he's half delirious with sensation, unused to garments that only restrict certain movements, the feel of silk on his skin, the collar-like feel of the bowtie wrapped around his throat like a ribbon on a present. Wade is already waiting at the table, dressed in a black on black silk on velvet tux ensemble that makes him look halfway between an undertaker and a celebrity. The black kidskin gloves have Peter leaning more toward mortician.  
  
    Wade stands graciously as Peter approaches with the maitre'd, pulling Peter's chair out for him. Peter's cheeks are probably hot enough to fry eggs, and he can't meet Wade's eye, knowing that Wade knows that the body harness is driving Peter around the bend. He can still see the incredibly self-satisfied smile that’s splashed across Wade’s face, though.  
  
    Wade pushes Peter's chair in for him and tosses a lazy signal over his shoulder to their waiter. When he sits, it's to Peter's immediate left, close enough to touch knees as he pours a glass of wine for Peter. Wade brushes a loving caress over the back of Peter’s hand. The kidskin of the gloves is almost as smooth as the stockings.  
  
    “Daddy's so proud of you, little prince,” Wade rumbles, and Peter's suddenly very nearly in tears, because _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he's wearing _lingerie_ , and they're in public - actual public \- and he's gone from half hard to fully erect in one sentence.  
  
    “Thank you, Daddy,” he whispers in response, looking up from under his glittering eyelashes, breathing shakily. Wade smiles, tender and warm, and Peter feels like he's more precious than anything else in existence. Wade's been more comfortable without his mask since his return from North Korea, and Peter appreciates being able to see his Daddy's smile, his eyes, his looks of adoration. That little glimmer of mischief that's threatening to bloom into a devastating conflagration any moment now.  
  
    The food comes - delicate, beautiful, and smelling like it can burn through cash faster than thermite. Peter must look mildly panicked because Wade smiles in that slow, indulgent way he does before he goes full Daddy.  
  
    “Hands in your lap,” Wade commands imperiously, gaze turning smoky. Peter stops breathing through his lungs, his eyes darting around the restaurant quickly. Their table is tucked away to the side, obscured from the other diners by enormous tropical plants. His super hearing picks up the disingenuous interest of a lady listening to her date, the bored pencil-tapping of the maitre’d, the fervent commiseration of the wait staff. They're alone in the crowd, he decides.  
  
    Peter licks his lips nervously, pleading with his eyes. He’s been feeding himself for decades now; he doesn't need help. But this is his _Daddy_ , and he'd do anything for him. Taking a deep breath, he opens his mouth, patiently waiting for Daddy to feed him.  
  
    Wade smiles, placing a tiny pasty on his baby boy's waiting tongue. There's an incredibly heady power in feeding someone who can break every bone in his body (and has, in the past, though it _was_ an accident). Peter chews slowly, eyes closed as he processes the taste of the morsel, the feel of accepting sustenance from another's hand. From his Daddy's hand. Peter opens his eyes; he's beginning to throb in his dress pants, feeling drugged.  
  
    Wade's getting drunk on the power. His beautiful baby boy is relaxing into the scene, the tension in his shoulders melting away as Wade watches. It's also rather obvious that Peter is aroused, and he's incredibly pleased with himself for picking up on this predilection of theirs.  
  
    “You are perfection, my little prince.” He purrs, selecting another bite for his baby boy. “Precious beyond words,” he agrees with himself before bringing a piece of honeycomb to Peter's waiting mouth. Peter smiles shyly before opening again, coquettish in his melting uncertainty. The moan that escapes his throat is so delicate that Wade might have missed it, had he not been staring at Peter as intently as he was. ' _Sweet baby Hades_ ,' Wade thinks as he feeds another piece of comb to Peter; ' _this boy is all I’ve ever needed_...'  
  
   
  
    They finish eating slowly, Wade alternating between feeding Peter and himself, smiling a tiny self-satisfied smirk the entire time. They had decided after only brief thought that Peter should drink by his own hand - the difference between taking his own drinks, but being fed by Wade’s hand had warmed Peter’s cheeks to near neon levels of blushing. Wade cooed, enchanted that Peter could still blush after all of their time together.  
  
    When they had finished eating, Wade stood, pulled back Peter’s chair, and offered his hand to his younger partner, looking like he’d waltzed off of the cover of a bodice-ripper.  
  
    “Would you grace me with a dance, my little prince?”  
  
    Peter’s breath leaves him in a rush, and suddenly the feel of the elastic on his skin is like a python, squeezing inexorably. He doesn’t know how to dance - has never danced outside of the shower, really. But this is their night together, and he does so love to please his Daddy. So Peter stands slowly and follows Wade with no small amount of trepidation to the dancefloor. The soothing heat of Daddy's massive hand against his lower back helps him to breathe normally. Peter may not know how to dance, but Wade's an excellent lead, and Peter is a fast learner.  
  
    The first dip makes Peter giggle softly, the change in perspective slightly disorienting after a few glasses of wine. It's the stretch of the elastic over his torso, pulling snugly between his thighs that gets him blushing again, though.  
  
    Wade is leading Peter through an extremely easy version of the Tango, and Peter is enraptured by the wail of the instruments, the passion of the other couples dancing around them. Wade spins him delicately, tracing a wide circle with the tip of his shoe. Peter mirrors the move, ending with one of Wade's thighs wedged between both of his. Wade's hand burns a path down his back, over the swell of his ass, fingers dipping into the cleft to push teasingly at the base of the plug sitting snugly against Peter's stretched opening.  
  
    “Here, my little prince,” he breathes, voice like tinder catching, “to me.” And suddenly the rest of the world falls away: It's only Peter and Wade, writhing and rolling against one another, the warm glass twisting inside of him at Wade's behest. The play of Wade's scars is riveting, and the feel of the silk stockings sliding over his skin is exponentially more intoxicating than the wine. Peter sucks in a breath, his chest shuddering with the power of it;  
  
    “Daddy,” he sighs.  
  
    Wade whisks him off of the dancefloor, breezes by the maitre’d, and they're out the door before Peter quite catches what's happening.  
  
   
  
   This limo is an extravagant disaster. The seats are leather from the smell of it, topstitched and finely pebbled. Peter feels hot with embarrassment - the damn thing has a minibar! He glances back at Wade - at his Daddy. Wade crowds him in, one hand held to the small of Peter's back, smiling indulgently.  
  
     Wade sits Peter down on the long seat, rubbing his thighs gently. Wade’s hands are hot, and Peter can’t resist the temptation to loosen his bowtie as they settle into the plush seats. A finger stills him where his hands are held close to his throat.  
  
   “Are you unwrapping my present, little prince?” Wade’s voice sounds like a bonfire turned to silk - slick soft and dangerous.  
  
    “I’m sorry, Daddy,” Peter lowers his lashes, bringing his hands to rest in his lap, rubbing delicately at the garters through his dress pants.  
  
    “If you were feeling impatient, you should have told Daddy,” Wade uses his index finger to push Peter’s chin up until the younger man has to raise his eyes to avoid discomfort. “You know how Daddy always takes care of you.” The kidskin feels obscene as it brushes against the tender skin of Peter’s throat while Wade finishes undoing the bowtie, flinging it to the side carelessly. “Especially when I’ve been waiting all day to see my beautiful baby boy, all made up just for me.”  
  
    Peter gasps, eyes flicking toward the front of the limo. He catches the eye of the driver in the rear-view and sees the man shift forward. A black window rolls up, the whine of the electronics cutting off with a thunderous finality when the partition is fully raised. Peter turns his gaze back to Wade to find that him looking ludicrously smug.  
  
    “Dopinder has the greatest discretion, baby boy.” Wade's mouth curls at the edge, predatory, as he leans forward to begin unbuttoning Peter's tux, “so scream, if you need to.” Peter bites his lip, defiant, even as his breath stops coming through his lungs as Wade kneels before him, divesting him of his shoes. Wade moans at the sight of silk stretched over the spun-glass bones of Peter's feet. He glances up, eyes roaring like a wildfire.  
  
    “Such a good boy for Daddy,” his voice sounds like gasoline over broken glass, and his touch takes on the tremble of a lion's muscle as it leaps for a kill. The dress pants barely survive Wade's ardour, the seams straining as he rushes them off. The shirt suffers the loss of a few buttons - they ping off of the windows, the sound high and sharp in Peter's ears. Wade looks positively feral; like he’s going to devour him whole. Peter's finding it increasingly difficult to stay silent.  
  
    As soon as Peter is stripped to his stockings and harness, he can't look any longer. The calculating silence of Wade's appraisal is too much. He begins to eke a hand toward his partially formed erection, knees pulled together tightly.  
  
    Wade strikes like a cobra, seizing the offending wrist with enough power to upset Peter's seat. Whirling, Wade winds up on the bench, swinging Peter's mass in counterpoint, settling his startled young lover astride his lap like a cowboy on a stallion.  
  
    “Did Daddy say you could cover up?” The growling tone makes the hair on the back of Peter's neck stand up: _Danger_. And Christ on a heist it's so fucking _arousing_.  
  
    “No, Daddy…” Peter shifts on his knees, rubbing the soft under curve of his ass on the tops of Wade's thighs. “Can I apologise?” He glances up from under his lashes, lower lip caught between his teeth.  
  
    “You little _slut_ ,” Wade purrs, endeared. He takes Peter's captive wrist, placing the hand on his shoulder, and coaxing its twin up to rest on the opposite shoulder. “Brace yourself, little prince.”  
  
    Peter gets a fraction of a second to feel confused before the first blow lands, sharp, stinging, and amplified a thousand fold by the elastic framing his ass like a painting at the Louvre. He whines. He can never decide if he likes it when Daddy spanks him, and the idea that there's someone less than ten feet away from them, sitting in the same car as them, hear-  
  
    The next slap wipes out higher cognition for a moment, and he sucks air into his lungs like a man drowning.  
  
    “Daddy!” He gasps.  
  
    “Little prince,” Wade responds, kneading Peter's ass in both of his massive hands. He strikes both cheeks at once, the silky smoothness of the kidskin adding to the sting in ways that Peter never thought possible. Wade kisses him, hard and filthy. Devouring him.  
  
   “Oh, Daddy,” Peter tries again, his voice hitching, his fingers crushing the velvet of Wade's tuxedo.    
  
    “Oh, baby boy,” Wade echos, slipping his fingers into the elastic bands that slide under the curve of each cheek, pulling them away from the flesh. He lets go. The ringing _crack_ of the material snapping back into place the perfect precursor to the yelp that rips itself free from Peter's throat.  
  
    Peter's thighs are quivering, and while he hadn't dropped his hands from Wade's shoulders, Wade is perfectly sure that this jacket will never be the same. Worth it, he preens mentally, slipping a hand between them to wrest himself free from his dress pants.  
  
    “You're so beautiful like this, my little prince,” he's pushing against the base of the plug again, watching the reflection of it glitter on the windows. _Fuck_ , he loves the thought of the rest of the world just on the other side of the smoked glass, unaware of his treasure, completely oblivious to how gorgeous Peter is, thighs shaking, ass stretched, wearing a little elastic cage because _Daddy told him to_. He growls, pulling his little prince down for another bruising kiss.  
  
    “Do you want me, baby boy?” He's half mad with lust, but he's never too far gone to hear Peter beg for it. For this. For him.  
  
    Peter whines, trying to cobble words together with what's left of his brain function. Wade's pulling gently on the plug, now, the thick flare stretching Peter from the inside out. It isn't enough...  
  
    “Daddy!” He manages when Wade pushes roughly against the toy, “I want - need you!” Wade rewards this stroke of eloquence with a firm tug on the toy, just beginning to work the flare out of Peter's clenching, silken heat. “I need you to feed me,”  
  
    Wade's higher cognitive function takes this as a cue to leap to its death. He barely has enough left to lubricate himself before pulling the plug out with no further preamble, and shoving himself into Peter's waiting body.  
  
    “Daddy's perfect little slut, Daddy's needy baby boy,” he ducks his head, latching onto a perky nipple, nibbling harshly. He snaps the elastic where it circles under Peter's shoulder blades and delights in the tremors that wracked his body, the aborted shout that claws its way through his teeth where they clutch his lower lip. “Daddy's little prince,” he clutches one of Peter's hips tightly in hand, holding him still while he ruts up, wild with need. “So hungry for Daddy's seed,” he snaps one of the bands that cross over Peter's pubis, and _finally_ he gets the needy little scream that Peter makes when he’s truly beyond thought.  
  
    “Do you need me to feed you?” He interrupts Peter’s shaky inhalation by snapping one of the straps that’s snugged up against the curve of his inner thigh, luxuriating in the way Peter’s body jerks. His poor little prince - so desperate for it. And yet… too quiet. Wade narrows his eyes.  
  
    “What did Daddy tell you about being quiet when we’re alone?”  
  
    Peter’s eyes snap open. _Shit_.  
  
    “We-” Wade interrupts him again, snapping his hips up while pulling Peter’s down. Peter’s eyes roll for a moment, his head falling back in ecstasy. “We’re n-ah! Not alone!” There's a fine tremor of terror quivering in Peter's voice.  
  
    Wade finds this to be insufficient reason for Peter’s laconicity.  
  
    He pulls out, smirking at Peter’s whine of protest, pushing the boy to his knees on the floor of the car.  
  
    “Daddy doesn’t like it when you’re quiet, little prince.” He allows himself the brief pleasure of running the head of his leaking cock around Peter’s lush lips, leaving a slick trail of precome and lubricant behind. Wade slips behind Peter, shoving him up onto the seat, pushing into him brutally.  
  
    “How am I supposed to know you’re enjoying yourself if you don’t scream for me?” He sets a vicious pace, snapping the elastic at random intervals, enthralled by the little squeals and shudders it elicits.  
  
    “You know I can wait you out, sweetheart.” He slows the roll of his hips to a leisurely rocking. “Daddy can stay hard for hours,” he runs his hands along Peter's sides lovingly, “remember how long I waited last time?” Peter _does_ remember. Vividly. Especially the part where he spent the next day standing around, awkwardly saying that he'd, ah, _bruised his tailbone_?  
  
    Peter’s no slow study; he knows where this will go if he doesn’t let his Daddy get his way. But there are people so close, and he’s terrified that they’ll hear him. But he knows that the driver that Daddy hired will probably drive to California if that’s what it takes, and he can’t quite think straight with the slow ocean-wave rolling of Wade’s thrusts, the feel of Daddy’s hot-rough-perfect hands petting him lovingly. Peter pushes himself up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder at his Daddy, and _god damn it_ there was a reason he’d been stifling himself, but he’s having trouble remembering what it was. Wade doesn’t allow it.  
  
    Wade’s watching Peter like a hawk; eyes trained expertly on the lines of his baby boy’s shoulders, the way they begin to melt as he works Peter’s body slowly. The last time he had to wait Peter out it had taken nearly three hours in a facilities closet in the building where Peter works. Though, he also hadn’t spent all night leading up to the main event, and so he’s beyond pleased to see Peter relaxing into it in moments rather than hours.  
  
    Peter pours his upper body down into the rough silk leather, exhaling blissfully as Wade takes ahold of one shoulder, and the opposite hip, laying himself over Peter’s back.  
  
    “There’s Daddy’s little prince,” he whispers, his fever-hot breath caressing Peter’s ear, “come back to make Daddy feel good,” he snaps his hips forward, rearing back to loom above his beautiful baby boy, “so good for Daddy,” Peter whines a happy little sigh, the force of Wade’s thrusts moving him over the seat, rubbing his chest against the leather.  
  
    He whimpers as Daddy’s thrusts gain force, the feel of the elastic stretching over his body is a pinching contrast to the pebbled leather, wildly disparate from the creamy kidskin of Daddy’s gloves, the still-cool slick feeling of the silk of Daddy’s dress pants. Peter’s head is swimming, his clever fingers working their way into the split between the seat and the back of the bench, reveling in the scent-taste-feel of the leather. He moans loudly when Wade trails the barest tips of his gloved fingers down his sides. Wade grins wickedly. He snaps the rings on either side of his baby boy’s hips, satisfied beyond words at the keening wail that tears itself free his little prince’s slender, ripcord muscled throat.  
  
    “There’s Daddy’s little prince,” he croons again. He slides a hand down to Peter’s straining erection, petting and pulling delicately in counter to his powerful thrusts.  
  
    Peter sobs.  
  
    Wade smirks.  
  
    “Come for me, little prince,” Peter whimpers, “Daddy won’t feed you until you do.” A reedy whine wends its way from Peter’s kiss-swollen lips. “Aren't you hungry, baby boy?” Peter's thighs are quivering; his chest is heaving, he's balanced on the edge of a wickedly sharp orgasm. “You haven't had me in _days_ little prince,” Wade's playing fast and loose with time, but the plaintive mew that his baby boy releases makes it sound like Wade hasn't fucked him in _weeks_. “Haven't had Daddy come in you for so long, little prince,” Wade pulls at the ring between Peter's shoulder blades, “don't you need Daddy to come inside of you?” Peter gasps what might be a 'yes,' but turns into a pleasurably tortured wail as soon as Wade releases his hold on the ring.  
  
    The snap of the elastic ignites a shudder in Peter's slender back, exploding into orgasm as it seizes the base of his spine. Peter rears back, bent like a bow, his hands flying back to clutch Wade's shoulders, nails tearing furrows into the plush velvet of the coat. Peter's throat is working like he's reciting poetry, but his voice is silent, crushed by the power of his climax.  
  
    Wade curls the tips of his fingers in along the cradle of his baby boy's hips, forefingers biting viciously under the hook of the iliac spine, vision collapsing to pinprick points of white. Peter's body is wringing his orgasm from him without his permission, and it's so goddamn good that Wade can't help but fling himself into it. His thighs lock, and he crushes Peter's still tense body closer, sure to leave bruises on his little prince's hips. He drops a petal-soft kiss to the lobe of Peter's ear, “So good for Daddy,” he sighs, pleased that Peter whines, his spent erection twitching needily in response to the praise. Wade sinks his teeth into the thick of Peter's trapezius, his incisors nearly catching the clavicle in his ardour. His orgasm feels like a solar flare, and he's hazily sure that it's because of Peter.  
  
    Wade’s vision gradually returns, realizing that Peter has lain down on the bench again, his head turned to the side. His little lover has a lazy grin curling the edge of his candy lips, his eyelashes kissing his still-flushed cheeks. Peter isn't breathing through his lungs, relaxed into a state of languid arachnidan bliss.  
  
     Wade catches the toy up, rolling it between his gloved hands while he rocks gently against the exhausted boy beneath him. Peter mumbles sweetly from time to time, that tiny self-satisfied smirk sticking to his face like candyfloss. Wade pulls out gently, smiling in the same languid fashion as Peter when he hears his baby boy whine softly at the loss. He slips the toy back in, shushing his sleepy sub’s grumbling.  
  
    Wade raps his knuckles on the glass separating them from Dopinder, and assumes the abrupt change in the sway of the car indicates that they're on course for home. Wade quickly collects and organizes Peter's clothes into a little pile by the door, and turns back to Peter. His little prince is still draped over the bench, idly caressing the leather as he hums intermittently.  
  
    Wade smiles indulgently as he sets about gathering Peter up, petting the younger man's tender flesh where it's red from the snapping elastic, rubbing his baby boy's slightly raw knees where the silk shredded against the carpeting. Peter smiles up at him vaguely, eyes barely open, still miles away in subspace.  
  
    “Did I do good, Daddy?” He slurs, curling into Wade's broad chest, fairly purring as Wade runs his fingers through Peter's thick hair.  
  
    “Always, little prince,” Wade assures, pressing a kiss to Peter's temple.  
  
    The car lurches to a stop, and Wade whips his jacket off, wrapping his lovely sub in the skin-warmed velvet. He hands the pile of Peter's clothes to him, having to spend a moment convincing Peter's pleasure-numbed fingers to hold on to the bundle. Dopinder opens the door for them, and Wade scoops Peter up as though he's as light as a feather before whisking him out of the limo, and up the stairs.  
  
    “He makes you a most agreeable husband,” Dopinder smiles widely at Wade.  
  
    Wade's gait stutters a moment as he turns back to Dopinder, Peter wrapped securely in his arms, and quirks a brow at his friend.  
  
    “Now there's an idea, Dopinder - a spectacular idea.”  
  
    They exchange another smile, and Dopinder nods. Wade turns back to the house, engaging in a bit of gymnastics to get the front door open. He climbs the stairs slowly, listening to the slow return of Peter's breath. Wade lays him on the bed, now having to coax the bundle of clothing back from Peter's hands.    
  
    “We need to get you ready for bed, little prince,” Wade purrs, “Daddy has a spectacular idea...”  
  
    Wade strips Peter, tucking the ruined stockings away for later use. He pets and gentles his baby boy, encouraging him to sip cool water before nesting beneath the thick covers he so loves. He beds down behind Peter, enfolding him in his thick arms, feverishly planning as they cuddle in for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Gaiz. I am so fucking tired right now? I am so sick, and so tired, and such insomnia: All at once. I feel sort of like a dumpster fire, if the bin were full of inexpertly mummified remains. 
> 
> In other news, this is the harness I used as reference for this fic: https://www.etsy.com/listing/497292878/barbarella-sexy-cage-harness-with  
> I wonder if it's flattering for designers when their work inspires writers, or if it's just kind of weird, considering I'm writing about a kid who sticks to walls, and dude who can't die?
> 
> Also! Comments for the poor? Pls?  
> I do promise to proofread this another six or so times, but I don't promise to catch all of my derpy mistakes.   
> Re-proofed 25.11.17.
> 
> Peace, y'all.


End file.
